


For Business and Pleasure (the Window Shopping remix)

by arcadenemesis



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: And Keith's best client, Film Noir, Keith (Voltron) in Lingerie, M/M, Minor Keith/Sendak (non-romantic), Red Light District, Sendak is Shiro's evil boss, Sex Worker Keith (Voltron)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-15
Updated: 2020-06-15
Packaged: 2021-03-04 03:42:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,711
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24717001
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/arcadenemesis/pseuds/arcadenemesis
Summary: "Changed your mind?" Keith teases, feeling the ghost of lace as the shoulder strap of his bralette slips down his arm.The man's eyes track its path, lingering for a moment, before he brings his gaze back to Keith's face."What's your name?" the man asks instead.Keith has never had trouble balancing himself between two lives. That is, until Shiro walks by his window.
Relationships: Keith/Shiro (Voltron)
Comments: 26
Kudos: 110
Collections: Sheith Remix 2020





	1. The Boy in the Window

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Ahhuya](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ahhuya/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Shopping For Empty Windows](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18042746) by [Ahhuya](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ahhuya/pseuds/Ahhuya). 



The war in the city is one fought in silence and shadows. Creatures that crawl the streets in the night have a way of transforming into the benign at first light, scattering the evidence of their sins. Indeed, even the innocent who walk among them after dark rarely seem to notice the dirt, the blood, the carnage, only seeing a carnival of desires and delight.

That's what makes it so dangerous. 

Keith Kogane isn't a stranger to the night. It has been a silken robe he has worn for years now—embraced its dirty secrets and made part-time lovers of its creatures. 4 AM is a friend he has long learned to love, when the curtains are finally drawn and he slips off his second skin, becoming unremarkable once more. He doesn't prefer one version over the other. The boy in the window balances hedonism and adrenaline on the point of a knife, while the ordinary guy in sweats and black-rimmed glasses walking home unnoticed deals in more humble pleasures: fresh sheets, warm cups of tea and oil paint canvases by the window in his studio apartment. Keith isn't sure either would be as wonderful without the other. 

Toeing off his sneakers and peeling off his socks at the door brings forth a sigh of relief tonight. He had been foolish enough to break in new heels without a chair in the window to rest. Cold tiles underfoot are a salve and the offending shoes clatter rudely as he drops his bag to the ground. The lingerie will need to be carefully cleaned, his shredded stockings thrown in the trash and replaced, but for now, all he cares about is a long hot shower to wash the night away. 

The sound brings forth movement in the apartment—a quiet whine, then the soft padding of paws across the timber floor.

"Hey there Kosmo," he coos, ignoring the burn in his thighs as he squats down to ruffle the wolfdog's fur. He does a quick reshuffle of priorities as Kosmo's tail thumps against the wall and he licks Keith's cheek. First breakfast, then a shower.

It's a little funny, how he fell into this life. An astrophysics major on a full scholarship, but still struggling to make ends meet in a city with expensive taste. With no family to fall back on, Keith had only ever had himself to rely on. He had always fought tooth and nail to survive, let alone thrive. At nineteen, already he wasn't sure how much fight was left in him, feeling the inevitable burn-out chasing him like a shadow.

Then, enter Romelle. Keith had taken a shine to her the first day she had sat next to him in an elective of Art History 101. And she had really brought him out of his shell. Keith had never styled himself a party boy—in a lot of ways, he still didn't—but in Romelle's company, he could see the appeal. What had started as a means to a free meal had turned into genuine enjoyment. Romelle really knew how to throw a soirée, and she was as generous as she was lavish. She had money, and she knew how to spend it. Keith couldn't really say the same. He had never assumed to ask where it came from…but he _had_ —in one of his less finer moments—attempted to smuggle out a few items from her pantry at one of her penthouse parties. Instead of kicking him out when she caught him red-handed, she had shooed out the last of her guests and taken him down to the red light district.

It was only supposed to be a one-time thing, after he got over his initial shock at the secret lives being led in windows and dimly-lit alleyways. Keith had never been a particularly _adventurous_ type when it came to carnal desires, but after one evening dressed behind the glass with Romelle acting as his pseudo bouncer—no touching allowed—he had walked home with enough cash in his pocket to not have to worry about an entire month's rent. But one night turned into another. Then, just a couple more. A temporary thing, just enough to cover him for the rest of the semester. But what had started as a bid for a little extra cash had turned into more of a lifestyle; one he found himself…enjoying. Being one of the few men in streets of women made him an anomaly. Being the most beautiful man on the street (at least, according to Romelle's assessment) made him coveted. Being coveted made him bolder. New outfits, new nights, new limits. Keith found himself sinking deeper into life in the window. Then one day, he had caught the eye of one of the most powerful men in the city. Temporary turned into something more permanent. 

Sendak wasn't generous between the sheets, but he _was_ generous with his wallet, and that suited Keith just fine. He wasn't here for the sex, after all. With Sendak's focus firmly on him, one night a week became two, then three, then five, just to fit around Sendak's unpredictable demands. Just until graduation became just another year, then another. A side hustle became a career, at least for now.

Keith gives another sigh as he finally steps under the spray of his shower, letting the heat seep into his bones. Away from the street, away from the war, it's quiet, peaceful. And still…

Keith can't wait to throw himself to the wolves once more.

* * *

It's early, but Keith finds it's best to make sure there's no chance of missing Sendak on a weeknight. Wealth hasn't afforded the guy a lot of patience, and if Keith isn't there when he walks by, he won't wait. Keith grimaces to himself. He knows it's not the best practice, revolving his work in the hope that his biggest client _might_ show up. Romelle has warned him time and again that it gives Sendak too much power.

There's more to it though, things he won't tell Romelle. Because while he loves spending Sendak's money, he suspects every bill is dirty.

He doesn't know how, but one day, he'll bring the man down to his knees. 

With one last tug at the hem of his cropped shirt, he twists to adjust the laces that run down his side, stretching the thin leather tight across his chest so it sits like a second skin, emphasising his lean, muscular build and the pert of his nipples. He takes his time preparing himself before wriggling into a pair of leather leggings that leave little to the imagination. The zip on his inseam may seem a touch gaudy, but it's fucking practical. The only way they could be tighter is if Keith had vacuum sealed himself in—once these suckers are on, they're not coming off until the end of the night.

From there, it's final checks: smoothing down the bed in the back room, turning on security cameras, adjusting make-up and hair. No stilettos tonight though. His toes still hurt from yesterday. Besides, the boots still work, and there's just enough heel to accentuate the curve of his ass. A flick of a switch washes crimson light over his body, and then…

Showtime. 

The pull of the curtain draws eyes. There are a few double takes, as usual, and a couple of girls who stop on the street to appreciate the view. One man rushes to his window, desperately sifting through a very empty wallet.

"What will 42 GAC get me?" he asks, far too hopeful, and far overestimating what Keith sees in his hands. He simply raises an eyebrow. 

"My ire."

The man deflates, but he knows better than to argue. The district isn't kind to those who would harass the workers when told no. It's a rather quiet start to the evening otherwise, all things told. One nervous, giggling couple—tourists clearly from the accents—negotiate for a voyeuristic encounter, and he rips off a few stumbling day drinkers that pass by. No Sendak. Keith can't help but feel he's wasted his time. That is, at least, until something in the street catches his eye.

He stands out like a nun in a… _Well_...

Keith thanks his lucky stars he came in early tonight. The man in the trench coat is—frankly—delicious. Tall, built like an Adonis, if the broad shoulders and belt cinched at his waist are any indication. That jaw could have been carved from marble, his face sculpted by a loving, gifted hand. 

Keith rarely finds himself wanting to seek out a passerby. But the mystery man also looks borderline frightened by the spectacle around him, hands jammed in pockets and eyes low. It's abundantly clear this is his first time walking through the district. That only makes him all the more appealing. The thrill of tempting in a red-light virgin is a heady experience that Keith never grows tired of. Quickly tousling his hair and checking his outfit in the hidden mirror near the curtain, Keith adjusts himself on the stool, arches his back a little more, and stretches his legs out to tap on the window with the toe of his boot when the man draws near.

"Where are you going, darling?" he calls out, surprised to find his heart pounding against his breast.

Keith has no concerns about whether he's been heard. The man stops dead in front of the window, startled, and Keith watches as his eyes fall onto his boot by the glass, running slowly up the length of his leg, raking over his body until Keith feels naked. The man's lips pop open, but he doesn't utter a word, shoulders going tense. Keith has no idea what to make of that. Desire, or disgust?

"Are you in a hurry?" Keith prompts, leaning forward in a way he knows will pull the leather tight across his chest. But the man seems more fixated on how the motion causes his hair to fall over his shoulder, his eyes snapping up to look at Keith's face. Keith doesn't see disgust. Just a pair of lovely grey eyes, startled though they may be. A scar rests below them, across the bridge of his nose, but it does nothing to make his face look harsh or mean. It almost lends him a sense of valour, rather than violence or masculinity, like the mark symbolises trials overcome, rather than battles fought. Keith gives him a little secret smile and relishes in the way his throat bobs in response. "I'd love a few minutes of your time."

Still, he doesn't speak. His eyes stay firmly on Keith's face, and it feels far more intimate than anything else Keith has done all night. The man breathes out shakily, and Keith is struck by the feeling that the stranger would simply watch him like a work of art forever if he let him. It's both empowering and frustrating. Such undivided attention makes him want to squirm on his seat, and Keith knows the red light is the only thing hiding the heat starting to rise in his face. He wishes the guy would just _say_ something. He taps the window with his toe again. 

"I'm not a fancy designer coat, so do you want to come in or not?"

It's the wrong move. Keith hears him gasp on the other side of the glass. Before he can blink, the man spins on his heels and practically _sprints_ down the street, disappearing out of sight. It leaves Keith a little stunned. He tries to tell himself that he's not disappointed, that he shouldn't take it any harder than any other negotiation through the glass that falls through.

He doesn't find himself terribly convincing.

Sendak failing to show by the time he closes his curtain is just insult to injury. He's made plenty for the night without the asshole's help, but it still irks Keith. Tuesdays are usually a sure thing. He doesn't appreciate being toyed with like this.

* * *

Romelle picks up on it immediately when she invites herself into his window to drag him out onto the street at 3 on the dot.

"Can you even _afford_ to keep up with me tonight?" she grins, offering out the lipstick-stained roach of her joint.

Keith scowls, plucking it from her perfectly manicured fingers to inhale until the little embers singe his fingertips.

"I'll buy the first round," she teases as he stamps out the stub with his boot, wrapping an arm around his shoulders.

"Still your charity case, huh?" Keith grumbles, smoke escaping his lips. "Just because Sendak didn't show up, doesn't mean I had a quiet night."

Romelle wrinkles her nose. "Urgh, don't invoke the name of Daddy Darkest in front of me."

"Maybe if you'd stop calling him my daddy—"

"I wish you'd just drop him," Romelle says seriously. "He gives me the creeps. It's not just that he's obsessed with you. He's one of those awful powerbroker types that seems like he'd happily watch the world burn for his own gain. And that scary arm of his?" Romelle exaggerates a shudder. "You don't have to say yes to him, you know? You'd still do perfectly fine out here."

Keith wants to protest, but Romelle jumps up to wave at a red-headed girl locking up across the street. 

"Luka! Join us! Keith's buying!"

Keith splutters indignantly. "You said—"

"Oh, loosen up, Mister Not-A-Charity-Case," Romelle teases, poking out her tongue. 

Luka surveys them both with suspicion as they approach. The girl has never been much for idle chatter, preferring to keep to herself. But then again, Keith had always been the same. Romelle just seems to have her way. 

"Is this a quiet nightcap, or are we going to see your famous party tricks in an hour's time?" Luka asks, tying a scarf around her neck to keep out the chill of the night. 

Considering Keith's threatening headache and that fact that Romelle's party tricks usually involve commandeering Keith for body shots and going hands-free on bottles of beer between her cleavage, he sincerely hopes not. Sendak is one thing, but he can't stop thinking about the man who had run away tonight. It's stupid. He's had plenty of people walk away before. But this one… Not even a hit from Romelle can shake the feeling. Keith just wants to go home.

"Nightcap," he says firmly, and Romelle tugs on his arm and jeers while Luka cracks a rare smile.

"You used to be cool!" she accuses, snatching up Luka's hand to drag them both down the street.

* * *

Sendak finally shows in the early hours of Saturday morning. He indulges the pouting and attempts to play hard-to-get through the window for as long as Keith dares to test his patience, but there's a twitch in his lip that signals it runs thin. When Keith finally lets him in, Sendak tries to crowd him into the back room immediately, but Keith places a hand on his chest to keep him at bay a moment longer.

"Where were you on Tuesday?" Keith asks, and it's without the teasing this time. "I came in early just for you and you left me high and fucking dry."

Something dark crosses Sendak's face. Darker than usual, anyway.

"Employee performance review went longer than expected," he says cryptically, and Keith frowns.

"What kind of stupid excuse is that?" he huffs, staring at the corner of the room to avoid looking at Sendak's face this close. 

It's not that he's particularly hideous, but Keith has always found something unsettling about his appearance; the near-permanent sneer, the slicked-back hair and the scar over his ruined eye… Not at all like the pretty passerby that had run away the night Sendak had stood him up. Sendak's scars speak of someone who throws the first punch, who commands troops to their death in war. Keith knows he used to be a General, before he retired to fight with chequebooks and mergers. He assumes that came about after the loss of his left arm, though Sendak never speaks of it. Even the clawed cybernetic prosthetic that replaces it—impressive as it is in terms of technology and function—adds to his intimidating aura.

His tone is severe when he speaks. 

"I'll pay you triple your rate if you shut up and stop asking questions."

Keith's temper threatens to flare at that. It's rare that his work makes him feel less than human, but at times like this, when Sendak pays for his obedience, Keith feels his skin crawl. There's something about the way Sendak looks at him though that makes Keith hold his protest behind his teeth. It's more than a simple request for privacy. There's a hidden threat: don't pry, if you value your existence. For the first time, Keith feels a chill of real fear snake down his spine. He's always sensed the danger surrounding Sendak. It had been half of his appeal—something for Keith to one day destroy, to bring about his ruin. But this isn't an exciting walk on the wild side. In this moment, he radiates something menacing…deadly.

Keith forces a defiant smile, miming zipping his lips.

"Good," Sendak growls, tossing him onto the bed.

* * *

Sendak demands his pound of flesh in Keith's, but he tips enough at the end of the night that Keith can take the weekend off without concern to recover from his linger aches from Sendak's…less than gentle handling. By Monday, he's had enough Epsom salt baths, naps on the couch with Kosmo and increasingly worried messages from Romelle that he feels limber enough to return to work. 

Two paracetamol swallowed dry is enough to ease the tenderness in the backs of his thighs as he begins his commute on foot. His breath puffs in front of him down at street level, so Keith wraps his coat tighter around himself and pulls his scarf a little higher to bury the bottom half of his face into woollen warmth. He opts for the walk instead of a taxi in an effort to loosen up his sore muscles, but it gives his mind time to wander. He's spent most of the weekend trying to shake off the unease Sendak left him with, and he willfully pushes him out of mind again. Another face quickly floats into focus: wide, grey eyes, red light reflecting in silver hair, and a blush under a curious scar.

He wonders whether his dashing dasher was lost that day, whether he would find himself wandering by his window again. Perhaps he was only a tourist, in too far over his head when Keith had gotten his attention. Keith hopes not. Remembering the way the man had drank in the sight of him brings Keith a pleasant warmth in the late autumn chill. He wants to feel stripped bare like that again, like Keith could bring his entire world to a standstill.

Keith wishes he had known the way to make him stay a little longer, to coax a few words out of him, to make him step closer. He wonders if he liked the leather, or whether he'd prefer something a little softer. Lace, perhaps? Something that showed off a little more skin? Maybe he would like black lingerie—something delicate and pretty that he could tear away with fingers and teeth. 

Keith feels half worked up by the time he unlocks his window and slinks into his back room to change. The bed is still stripped bare from Saturday morning, when Keith had been far too exhausted to redress the room after Sendak had finally left. He tends to that first, before opening up the wardrobe hidden behind a mirror. Black lace catches his eye first, and Keith huffs a soft laugh to himself. He'll probably never see his handsome stranger again, but at least a guy can dream, he thinks, as he sheds his jacket. 

* * *

The lingerie always draws plenty of attention, bringing in customers who would usually baulk at the premium prices listed in the window. Keith already has over twelve hundred GAC stashed under his mattress before 8 PM—more than enough to make up for a night without Sendak. In spite of that, it doesn't feel like an extraordinary evening. That is, until the latest group of gawkers finally come to terms with the state of their wallets and scurry away. The red sea parts, and Keith sees grey.

This time, Keith finds the man's eyes already on him. He's pleased to find his memory hasn't been too generous. The guy is still a walking wet dream. And with a little more intensity in his gaze tonight, a little less bewilderment, Keith's breath threatens to catch in his throat. He preens with a sudden realisation; if their first encounter was a mere accident, this one isn't. This man had come back on his own accord, had sought him out. Keith feels a little drunk with it, trying to bite back a smile as he leans forward, hands gripping the edge of his velvet stool between his thighs, accentuating all the best parts of his body, trying to close the deal.

"Changed your mind?" Keith teases, feeling the ghost of lace as the shoulder strap of his bralette slips down his arm.

The man's eyes track its path, lingering for a moment, before he brings his gaze back to Keith's face. 

"What's your name?" the man asks instead. It's a little breathless, but Keith feels like it's his head that's spinning. Tall and handsome has a voice to match—low, soft, yet commanding. To hear it say his name would be something divine, but Keith plays coy.

"Whatever you want to call me, dear," he says with a patented secret smile, swinging a stocking-clad leg to tap his foot softly against the window. An air of mystery—a promise of anonymity—is usually appealing to customers. Not this one. There's the slightest drop in his expression, like disappointment. They've barely met, but Keith feels like that is the last thing he wants. "But if you want something to feel closer, call me Keith."

The man seems to startle at that, as if he didn't expect an answer. Or maybe it's the offer of something a little intimate that does it. Either way, Keith can tell he's losing him again. He doesn't know whether to panic or sigh. He tries to wait, tries to be patient, but the man doesn't say anything, watching him with wide grey eyes. Keith shifts in his chair. He can't stay silent forever. They're getting nowhere. 

"So, what do you want?" he prompts.

The response comes far quicker than he expects.

"I don't want anything."

Nothing? No, that can't be right. Keith won't accept that. He can't lose now, not after giving his name to a guy who hasn't so much as flashed a single coin at him. 

"I've seen you watching, big guy," he says, as if sharing a hushed secret. "One stop I get, but you don't look a second time if you have no hidden intent." Keith gently kicks the window again, near the sign of his prices. "Just tell me what you want and I can give it to you."

"I don't—"

"300 GAC for a blowjob. Sound good to you?" Keith powers through, knocking a little off the listed price. "Don't take too long to make up your mind. My regulars could show up any minute, and I wouldn't want to miss out on you."

The man's cheeks light up like Christmas. Hm, too bold? Keith isn't blind—the guy is sporting a telltale bulge already. Keith _knows_ he likes what he sees. If he can just coax him a little closer, then…

"I should go," the stranger mutters, before he dashes off again. 

Keith jumps to his feet, but the man doesn't look back once. This can't be happening. Not again.

"You didn't even tell me your name," he says softly, the words fogging the glass in front of him.


	2. If At First, You Don't Succeed

"So glum," Romelle pouts, pulling him out of his thoughts over a glass of mulled wine. "Just what did that scary regular of yours do to you last week?"

To be honest, Keith had completely forgotten about Sendak. For hours now, his mind has been occupied with something softer, far more fleeting. 

"Nothing I can't handle," he assures her, sipping at his wine.

Romelle pulls a face at that. "He gives me the creeps," she grumbles. "It's not even the face—I have some rough looking guys come through my door—it's just…"

Romelle has never been the one to bite her lip or tiptoe around what she wants to say. Instead, she slings back another shot of schnapps lined up on the table with a frown. "I heard he works for Daibazaal."

"So?"

"What do you mean _so_?" Romelle says, incredulous. "They've been shutting down business collectives for years. Just last month, Altea Tech went into liquidation. It's obvious Daibazaal is just a front for Galra Enterprises. Why can't anyone see that their CEO will run this city if he gets a monopoly over our entire business district?"

Keith isn't an idiot. He's seen it happening over the last few months too. Businesses, _people_ disappearing. It whittles at his nerves too. He knows, deep down, Sendak is responsible somehow. Perhaps that's why he maintains the thread of their connection. But he doesn't know what he can do, and he definitely _doesn't_ want Romelle getting involved.

"Never knew you had such an interest in the economy."

Romelle gives him a scarily solid punch to his shoulder. "Don't be a jackass."

"Ow," Keith deadpans, rubbing the spot. "Anyway, it's not him. It's…some other guy."

"Just how many scary regulars do you have?"

"No," Keith scowls. "Not that. Just…botched the landing on a potential customer tonight."

He hopes that will put the whole matter to rest, but Romelle is far too astute for her own good. "I've seen how much cash you're carrying right now. This isn't just some old John who passed on you, huh?" 

Keith hates the way she grins. He wants to stay tight-lipped, to not give her any ammunition, but there's no point in hiding it from her. At least they're not still talking about Sendak. "Fine, yes, he was fucking gorgeous. No one has any right to look that good in a business suit. Twice now he's run away from me. And I mean _run_. I thought maybe after he showed up again, he might want to come into the window, but still…" 

He sighs, and bats away Romelle's hand with a growl when she pinches his cheek. 

"Crushing on a John is bad enough, but crushing on a shy guy?" She laughs. "Don't sweat it. If he's good looking, well dressed and paying for sex, he's either a kind of an asshole or terrible in bed."

Keith spied what he was packing. He doubts it's the latter. It's a miracle the guy could run without a limp.

"Guess you're right," he mumbles as he picks up his glass to drown his sorrows. 

* * *

It's hard not to picture his face every time it feels like he's going through the motions. Keith hates that it's the mundane shit he thinks about—the thought of grey eyes unable to look away, the feeling of hands finally grazing over his skin, the fantasy of his voice saying his name. The concept of romance under a red light is so utterly fucking laughable that it rates higher on the scale of "shit-that-will-never-happen" than even the most unrealistic porn Romelle has sat him through in the name of _occupational research_. 

Still, it seems the universe has plans for the unlikely. Performing an imaginary cut and paste over the faces of customers seems to be some kind of weird manifest. It's while playfully ushering out one such victim of his mental gymnastics that he stops short. Either his visualisations are getting a little out of hand, or that's _him_ standing across the street, trying very hard to look interested in the prices for a peepshow that Blind Freddie could tell he has zero interest in. 

_He's killing time_ , Keith muses, preening under the very idea that he had seen Keith's curtain drawn and—instead of running off wherever it was he always seemed so eager to go—he had hung around. 

_Does he want to see me too?_

Rather than garner his attention, Keith takes his time making sure his cropped red jacket is straight and his hair sits just right.

_God…you're already a fool for this man and you don't even know his name._

Keith has never felt less suave in his life at that realisation. Still, he can fake it until he makes it with the best of them. Leaning against the window, he plays it cool, stretching his body out as if he hasn't seen the man at all. Eventually, he spies leather loafers pause by his door, and Keith can't help but grin.

"Hey beautiful," he croons, pushing off the window to get a better look at him. "Were you waiting for me?"

His stranger is still as handsome as ever, and just as shy, stuttering a response that goes nowhere. But he doesn't seem ready to take flight. Maybe… Maybe tonight would be the night Keith could make him stay. When he blushes, stuck on his words, Keith puts him out of his misery with a quiet laugh.

"Don't worry about it. It's a busy night. Sometimes you just have to wait," Keith says, a gentle assurance that simply lingering in the street isn't enough to creep him out. "So what will it be? Do I need to charge you for watching or is there anything else to your liking?"

Keith watches his throat work, but this time, his response comes out in whole words.

"What could I do if I said yes?"

Keith tries not to be the one suddenly tongue-tied. Nor does he try to seem too eager, despite the way his heart hammers against his ribs. 

"Anything you want, darling," he says, aiming for alluring. "Just use a condom and don't leave any permanent marks. Next to that, I'm all yours."

There's a pause that seems to last an eternity, but finally— _f_ _inally—_ the man nods. Keith has to concentrate on not fumbling the handle when he opens the door to let him step inside. Tugging on a rope, the curtain closes them off from the street beyond, and Keith leads him away into the back room. Judging by the way his new companion's eyes dart around the room, it's his first time. Well, at least as far as it comes to walking off the street and into the window, anyway. He already has cash clenched in his fist as he takes in his surroundings, and so Keith slinks over to him, running his hands over his forearms, over his biceps, his shoulders, his chest. _Fuck_ , he's solid under his fingers. Keith can't wait to peel him out of this business shirt and find creative uses for his silk tie. But first things first—Keith plucks the money out of his hands to tuck away. 

"So, what will it be?" he asks, turning on a sultry tone as he leans in close. "You have fifteen minutes."

Less time than he'd like. More than enough to blow his mind, Keith thinks. Enough to make sure he comes back for just fifteen minutes more, over and over again. He already has a few ideas in mind. First, that belt—

"I just want to talk."

Keith feels himself deflate like a balloon. The sultry tone falls away immediately as he registers his shock and deeply unprofessional disappointment, taking a half step back. "You can't be serious. You'd pay me to _talk_?"

That clearly worries the man, his brow furrowing. "I can pay extra if you want," he offers hastily.

Money to shut up last week, money to talk the next. Keith can't help but laugh to himself. Both suck, but at least this is a little more…endearing. 

"Don't worry about that," he assures, moving to sit on the bed, stretching out in the hope of compelling a last-minute change of mind. He pats the space beside him and the man follows him like he's entranced. Still, every button remains in place. He doesn't even remove his leather gloves. Keith almost sighs. "But if you think I'll give you my life's story, that isn't my thing with customers." The man swallows unconsciously, and so Keith gives him a softer look. "Whatever is troubling you, however, let it all out. You already paid."

The man finally lowers himself down onto the bed—cautious, as if he expects something to crawl out of the sheets and latch onto him. Despite how soft the mattress is, he stays rigid, but Keith waits.

"Well… I'm a student."

Slow start, Keith thinks, but honestly, this isn't so bad. He has a nice voice. Like honey, coating something rough underneath. It's low and warm—the kind of sound that seeps into Keith's skin and hums quietly in his bones.

"In business," the man clarifies, eyes still darting around, taking everything in. Keith wishes he would just look at him. "I'm, uh… I'm an intern for Daibazaal."

Keith hears static for a moment. Just those few words are enough to make the air heavier, the room shrink. Daibazaal is the last name he wants to hear; a serious dent in the vision he had for this moment. "You do know most people don't spill their guts in such detail to a random prostitute, right?" he teases, working hard to maintain a casual drawl as he lays back to rest his head against the pillow. "I know some other guys from there. It's a fancy place. Pays well."

The man huffs a humourless laugh. "Interns don't get paid that much. We do a lot of work and hope to get a good report. It can be a lifesaver once you get out on the job market. Especially with Daibazaal. Just the name makes people want to hire you. Sendak is already trying to promise me a job there."

Keith isn't sure why, but his heart drops a little. Any and all affection he holds for Sendak ends with the last digit of his platinum credit card. Being his entire office's whore kind of kills the whole fantasy he's been building around the man perched on his bed. Still, he can't let it show. He's on the clock, after all.

"Glad I never went through any of that," Keith laughs off, but when he looks at the man, there's concern in his eyes. Keith feels his pulse quicken, but he won't play into the role of the victim. "And don't try to get a sob story out of this. I got a degree, all the usual shit, but it wasn’t for me. This—” he rolls from his side onto his back, lazily kicking his legs in the air, "—is where I feel at home.”

The man's eyes follow his legs as if entranced, and for a moment Keith thinks he's finally hooked him, but then…

"What did you go to university for?"

"Astrophysics," he answers, automatic. He almost frowns. Maybe it's been too long since he just had a normal conversation with someone. His handsome stranger seems to have a way to make him volunteer more than he should. "But no customer is interested in having a lecture about nebulas. It’s a pretty big mood killer during an expensive fuck. Those minutes are valuable."

"I would."

God, he's so frustrating and adorable all at the same time. It's something that goes beyond his gorgeous face and enticing voice. Something...powerful, inescapable. Keith senses he's nearing the precipice of something far more frightening than Sendak. Like destiny or doom, wrapped up in one pretty package. He can't let this go on unchecked. 

"Well, no time for that now I guess," he says, feigning boredom. "Your time's up."

"It is?" His companion panics, nearly breaking his neck to look at his wristwatch to check. 

Keith almost feels bad. He shouldn't. The man on his bed is merely a customer. This is just a transaction. Business. That's all it will ever be. "No," he still assures with a quiet laugh, "but you're starting to cross the line. I'm not here to share my life's story, remember? And I'm not some kind of therapist."

The guy slumps a little, looking apologetic. "Right…"

"It's not too late to switch to something quick if you want to," he follows, wriggling his hips a little more than necessary as he rolls onto his belly, looking over his shoulder. "You still have a few more minutes."

To his eternal frustration, the man shakes his head. "I'm good," he says, voice soft. "Talking is good."

He's sweet, Keith decides, as he listens to him run out the minutes with idle conversation. Far, far too soft to work for an asshole like Sendak. He tries to stay polite with his gaze, despite sitting in the middle of a room made for sex, and Keith knows it's just wishful thinking when he wonders if his gaze is starting to linger a little longer on him. The chime of the alarm to signal their fifteen minutes is over catches Keith a little off-guard, but it completely startles his talkative customer, making him leap to his feet. 

"Guess your time really is up," Keith sighs as he shimmies out of the sheets. "Hope you feel you got your money's worth."

The man nods fervently, following Keith as he leads him out of the room and back onto the street. Keith blows him a kiss as he steps outside, happy to see it makes him stumble.

"If you ever want that nebula lecture, you know where to find me."

Keith watches the man's mouth pop open, but before he can find his tongue, another familiar voice reaches them.

"Shirogane?"

Ah, so he _does_ have a name. For all his chatting, Keith had begun to wonder whether he would ever learn it. As much as he would like to linger on that new knowledge, he has a job to do. And his most valuable customer just walked in. 

"Hey big man," Keith purrs, throwing a wink Sendak's way. "You were late. He got his fun first."

There's a glint of something dangerous in Sendak's eye as he stalks up to Keith and wraps an arm around him. It's possessive, and distantly, Keith hears warning bells. Sendak grins to Shirogane, but it drips in malice, and he makes a show of squeezing Keith's ass in front of him.

"I see you have good taste," Sendak says to his stunned intern, voice dripping with insincerity. "You won't find a better whore in this district." 

As much as he hates the thought of stoking Sendak's ego at the expense of Shirogane, Sendak's jealousy practically radiates off of him in waves. Keith doesn't want the last fifteen minutes to ruin someone's life. He leans into Sendak and puts on his sweetest voice.

"Won't find a better guy than you either. You don't waste your precious minutes talking, do you?"

Shirogane winces out of the corner of his eye, but Sendak raises his brow, clearly amused, and Keith has to believe the trade-off is worth it. 

"Never," Sendak answers, flesh and metal hands both drifting to run over bare skin. Keith barely contains the urge to shiver. Even in the cold night air, Sendak's touch offers little in the way of warmth. "I'll see you tomorrow, Shirogane."

Sendak doesn't wait for a response, inviting himself in and stalking through to the back room like he owns the place. Keith supposes he kind of does.

Grey eyes are still locked wide to him as Keith draws the curtain closed.


	3. Ordinary

It's almost noon when Keith wakes from visions of grey eyes and a soft, low voice in his ear. It's an innocent enough dream, if only one that makes Keith feel oddly alone when he stretches out in his bed. But that still sours Keith's waking mood.

"Can't even get me off in my own dreams," he grumbles. 

Any plans for a second attempt at a happier ending are foiled by paws on the mattress and dog breath in his face. 

"Kosmo, _off_ ," he half-growls, as if he doesn't let the mutt sneak up onto the bed most nights. He gets an indignant yip in response, and Keith huffs a laugh. "You get away with entirely too much," he says, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. He stares down the wolfdog as he sits still, waiting, before a grin splits Keith's face. "Ready for a walk?"

The reaction is instant. Kosmo jumps back onto all fours, backside wiggling under the force of his tail. He _boofs_ softly, rushing out into the apartment and returning to Keith's side with lead in mouth.

"All right, all right," he chuckles, grabbing a pair of paint-speckled skinny jeans from under the bed. "Gimme a sec to get changed, you overgrown puppy."

There's a certain thrill in leaving the apartment in expensive clothing and impeccable makeup, but Keith finds a different kind of joy in stepping out in an oversized sweatshirt and sneakers, with his hair thrown into a messy half-up bun. His thick-rimmed glasses fog with his breath outside, and so he tugs his scarf up under his nose as Kosmo pulls on the lead.

"Let's get me some caffeine, huh?"

They go the long way—through the park so Keith can let Kosmo free off the lead to burn off his endless energy. Keith has never been terribly concerned about fitting into polite society, but still, the moments of normalcy, where he can blend in with the other ordinary people going about their day is…nice. He likes mundane moments, he likes escaping the gaze of people passing by, and he likes going to his favourite coffee shop where he's simply known as Keith and not _honey_ or _sugar lips_ or _cherry bomb_. 

"Go find us a table," Keith says to Kosmo when the shop bell chimes behind them, as is their usual routine. He glances up to the counter as he winds Kosmo's lead around his wrist, ready for a familiar face to greet him. 

"Keith?!"

But that is...a differently familiar voice. Keith swallows as he turns his head, meeting startled grey eyes. Keith feels time stop, suspending the moment.

"Uh… Soy caramel latte for Shiro?"

The man in front of him blinks, spell broken, and he hastily moves to the counter to take his drink. Keith moves with him—only because he has to place his own order, of course—but a grin tugs at his lips as he reaches for his wallet. 

"Shiro, huh?" Keith says, and the man almost spills his drink in response. "Cute. Do you prefer that instead of Shirogane?"

There's a look of abject horror on the man's face. Ah. _Great._ Keith feels himself getting defensive, readying his usual walls and shields. It wouldn't be the first time a John has gone sour upon seeing him in their everyday life, like his mere presence during daylight could unravel all their dirty little secrets to the world. He prepares for the worst as the man opens his mouth.

"Oh my god, I never told you my name," he says faintly.

That catches Keith off-guard. "Uh, well—"

"I asked for yours… I talked to you for fifteen minutes straight last night. I—"

He holds out his hand and Keith barely manages to hold back a startled laugh.

"I'm Takashi Shirogane. Shiro."

Keith hesitates, then takes the hand with a wry smile. "Nice to meet you Takashi-Shirogane-Shiro."

Shiro stutters at that, and Keith takes the opportunity to turn to the counter where the barista is watching them with a sceptical kind of curiosity. "Just the usual, Hunk."

"I'll pay," Shiro says quickly, placing money on the counter before Keith can even dig out his card.

Hunk pauses, as if to see if Keith will contest, before he takes the bill with a smile. "I'll bring it over to you, Keith."

"Yeah… Thanks," Keith mumbles, tucking his wallet away. When he looks up, Shiro is still staring at him, just as enraptured as always. Except, today Keith isn't dressed in lace and leather under a red light. His body hides under a lumpy sweater and a ratty scarf with paint smeared on his jeans. He _shouldn't_ be looking at Keith like that. Not when he is unremarkable, everyday Ordinary Keith.

"If you want to join me, you should know I charge extra for the Boyfriend Experience," Keith says, turning on his heel. "But since I'm not on the clock, I guess I can let you try before you buy."

There's a heartbeat of stillness, then Keith hears a scramble behind him. He bites back a smile, watching as Kosmo's ears perk up on his approach. 

"Don't mind the dog," he throws casually as he sits down. "He can be protective. Don't be offended if he—"

Except, Shiro is already crouched down when Keith looks up, ruffling Kosmo's fur while the traitorous mutt slobbers happily over his cheek. They both freeze at the sudden silence, and it's hard for Keith to keep a straight face.

"You are the worst guard dog," he says flatly, to which Kosmo only wags his tail. But Shiro stuns him then. He laughs. There's something so easy in the sound, in the way his face lights up, unlike anything Keith has seen from him, and Keith's heart—the worst traitor of all—backflips in his chest.

"Sorry," Shiro says as he slides into the seat across the table, setting down his takeaway cup. "I should have asked first. What's his name?"

It's such an offensively normal, unforced interaction. Nothing like last night. Nothing like even barely two minutes ago. At the counter, it had felt like Shiro had still seen the boy in the window, wrapped simply in a new outfit. Keith thinks the visage might be slipping away. He doesn't know whether that scares him.

"It's Kosmo," he says, a little dazed.

"Kosmo, huh?" Shiro says, that smile lighting up again as he scruffs behind the mutt's ears.

Keith wishes he would stop. It makes him feel lightheaded. It makes him feel like _he_ is the one enchanted. 

"Why aren't you at work?" Keith asks, though it comes out more like a blurted demand. "Surely Sendak doesn't abide by his employees playing hooky." 

That dials back the smile on Shiro's face, and Keith isn't sure whether to be relieved or disappointed. "Had a check-in with my professor today," Shiro explains. "I'm sure Sendak will hammer me tomorrow. My manager has been missing all week, so now I'm doing _his_ work too."

"Sounds like a lot for an intern," Keith frowns.

Shiro just shrugs, his smile returning. It dimples his right cheek in a manner far too charming to be legal. "Just gotta make an opportunity of it all, I guess. I'm sure Thace will be back on his feet soon."

Keith can't explain the prickle of unease that creeps over him. Shiro seems to realise, because he quickly changes the subject. 

"How long have you had Kosmo?" he asks, as the mutt rests his head in Shiro's lap, fawning for attention with a lolling tongue. 

Keith pauses for a second to think. "A bit over two years," he decides. "Found him in an alleyway as a pup. The crows were hanging around waiting for him to die. So I wrapped him up in my jacket, took him home and nursed him back to health."

Shiro's eyes go soft in a way that melts Keith's stupid heart. "He's lucky to have you."

Keith has to look away as heat rises in his cheeks. "I think we're both lucky," he says quietly. "He arrived at a time in my life when I was feeling alone. Lost, even. I think we were meant to find each other."

Keith frowns a little at the table, chipping at the paint with his thumbnail. What is it about this guy that makes him spill his guts when he's spent a lifetime keeping to himself, long before he even stepped foot into his first window? Thrice betrayed, he grumbles internally, by mutt, heart and now tongue. 

Hunk saves him from himself by arriving to set down a muffin and a hot chocolate topped with whipped cream and marshmallows, raising a brow discreetly. Well, semi-discreetly, in that Shiro doesn't seem to notice the highly exaggerated expression. Keith feels a little rush of fondness for the barista. He doesn't doubt Hunk has an inkling about his second life, even if he's never seen him under the red light glow. The fact that he would try to check to see he was all right—that he hadn't been cornered by an overzealous patron—warms his heart, makes him feel a little safer. Still, he gives a small shake of his head as he murmurs his thanks, setting his glasses down on the table so they won't fog in the steam.

"Didn't pick you for a sweet tooth," Shiro grins as Hunk retreats back to the counter. 

"Says the guy with the caramel latte," Keith deadpans. 

Hands in the air, Shiro laughs again, and Keith is just as affected the second time. "Okay, okay, you've got me there. I'm hardly ready to confront my sugar intake."

He seems to be relaxing more by the minute, until Keith can barely see the startled, fumbling man that had passed by his window all those weeks ago. His comfort should be cause for discomfort. Familiarity should be a warning in sirens and flashing lights. But there's something about Shiro he can't quite explain. It's the moth and the flame. Except, Keith thinks—for the first time—he might just be the one searching for the light. 

Shiro disrupts Keith's thoughts by picking up his dessert fork to cleave out a piece of the muffin for himself.

"Hey!"

"Just quality checking," Shiro grins as he brings the fork to his lips. "Besides, I'm the one who paid for it."

Keith thinks he hears blood rush in his ears. Is he _teasing_ him now?

"I think I might like you better when you're shy," Keith grumbles.

Shiro has the decency to look apologetic, but before he can say anything, Kosmo—sick of being ignored—gives a quiet whine, nipping at the fingers of Shiro's glove.

"Kosmo, _no_ ," Keith growls as Shiro jerks the hand away in surprise. Kosmo comes away with Shiro's glove and Keith leans forward to snatch it out of Kosmo's mouth. "God, sorry, he's—"

Keith stops short, seeing Shiro cradling his hand. For a moment, Keith panics. Kosmo is usually deceptively gentle, a bark worse than his bite. If he's managed to hurt Shiro, it would be out of accident rather than intention, not that _that_ would matter if Shiro or anyone else decided to call the Sheriff. He half-stands to get a closer look at the injury. But instead of blood, Keith sees...metal? Shiro glances up, quickly trying to hide his arm, but Keith reaches over the table.

"May I?"

Shiro hesitates, struggling to meet his gaze. "I don't want to scare you off."

"Do I strike you as someone who scares easily?" Keith asks, cocking a brow. His hand doesn't budge from where it lies on the table. Hesitating, Shiro slowly draws his own from under the table, placing it palm up on Keith's.

"Mirrored to your boss," Keith muses, thinking about the awful clawed thing Sendak wears on his left shoulder. It feels symbolic. "Weird coincidence."

Shiro hums softly. "Yeah… Guess that might have been why Daibazaal offered me the internship in the first place. Sendak asked about it in my interview."

"Wouldn't be too many guys in finance around here with cybernetic arms, I guess." Keith reaches with his other hand to trace fingertips over Shiro's palm. It's different to Sendak's—softer lines and curves, more fluid, a little warmer. Metallic fingers twitch at the contact, and Keith looks up in surprise. "You can feel that?" he asks, huffing in disbelief as Shiro nods. "That's crazy. I barely applied any pressure at all. This is next-gen tech kind of bullshit. How does a business student even come to get fitted with one of these?"

Shiro grimaces and Keith feels his stomach plummet. 

"Fuck, sorry, that was really insensitive. You don't have to tell me—"

"No, no, it's fine," Shiro assures. He pauses, and Keith feels his eyes drawn to his Adam's apple as he swallows. "I actually don't remember." Keith's surprise must be open on his face, because Shiro gives a self-deprecating smile. "I know. It's weird. Sometimes it's so hard to wrap my head around it that it feels like I was abducted by aliens. Happened about a year ago. I woke up in a private hospital room, even though I had no insurance. Doctor said I'd been in a bike accident and lost my arm. To this day, I can't even recall leaving home. But whoever hit me must have felt pretty bad because the surgeons gave me this, then sent me on my way without ever charging me a cent."

Keith frowns at that. "Wait, they fitted this on you while you were still in a coma? That's pretty freaky. Surely that's illegal."

Shiro shrugs. "Not much I could do after the fact. And I guess it was better than the alternative. I probably could have crowd-funded for something cosmetic, but nothing like this."

"And the guy that hit you? What happened there?"

Shiro's lips twist a little. "I have no idea. Didn't get much of a chance to ask questions. By the time all the painkillers and anaesthesia had worn off, I was already sitting in my living room."

"Shiro, that's so fucked up," Keith hisses, squeezing Shiro's hand in both of his without realising. "How are you not completely traumatised by this?"

Kosmo whines, as if he agrees, and Shiro avoids the question for a moment by sliding his hand out of Keith's to scratch behind the mutt's ear. 

"I try not to think about it," he admits. He nods down to Keith's plate. "It's a good muffin. I'll steal more if you're not careful."

Keith knows a subject change when it beats him over the head with all the subtlety of a sledgehammer. He's no therapist though—he already made that abundantly clear the other night—so he humours Shiro with a pout, wrapping an arm protectively around his plate. 

"So, what kind of astrophysics lesson does a hot chocolate and a muffin get me?"

" _Half_ a muffin," Keith retorts, breaking off a piece. "Pick a topic. Galaxy formation, stellar dynamics, quantum theory, magnetohydrodynamics—"

"Mag…neto… Hrmph." Shiro laughs. "Let's keep it simple for me. Tell me something about stars."

"You realise that's such a broad field?"

"Then choose a niche that interests you."

Keith pauses, stirring through the gooey marshmallow and melted cream at the top of his mug thoughtfully. "Do you know much about binary stars, Shiro?" he asks, glancing up. Shiro shakes his head, and so Keith takes his drink in both hands, leaning back into his chair. "The name is a bit of a giveaway. It refers to stars that exist as a pair in a single system. In our solar system, bodies orbit a single star, but binary stars orbit a common centre of mass. They're gravitationally bound to each other."

"Sounds…strangely romantic," Shiro chimes in, and Keith huffs a laugh.

"Trust me, there's _nothing_ romantic about studying calculus and physics," Keith assures wryly. "Forty hours of differentials and derivatives a week will kill any lofty ideals you have about science and romance." He sips from his mug, letting it warm him. "Besides, binary star systems are nothing rare. The vast majority of star systems are made up of binaries. Alpha Centauri, for example."

"Or Tatooine."

Keith snorts a laugh and immediately chokes on his mouthful. There's a scrape of a chair as Keith's eyes start to water, followed by a gentle thump on his back as Shiro worriedly says his name.

"Holy shit, you're such a nerd," Keith wheezes, still laughing even as he half-asphyxiates himself. 

"Please don't make those your dying words," Shiro says nervously.

"First of all," Keith soldiers on, voice rough, "Tatooine is a planet, not a system. Second, and I'm sorry to be the one to break it to you, but _Star Wars isn't real_."

"I—I know that!" Shiro splutters.

"Convincing," Keith grins. Shiro goes beet red as he loses his tongue, but there's still a sweet sense of worry in his expression, so Keith puts him out of his misery. "I'm fine, I'm fine. You can sit down," he croaks, waving him off. 

Shiro obeys, waiting until Keith takes another sip of his drink to clear his throat. "Are you okay? I can get water if that's better."

"I said I'm fine," Keith says, exasperated, starting to feel more conscious of the likely unattractive blotch to his skin. "Just didn't expect a big, burly guy like you to be into Luke Skywalker."

"I'm more of a Ewan McGregor Obi-Wan guy, to be honest," Shiro quips, and Keith stops short before his next drink to huff. When he looks up over the rim of his mug, Shiro is fighting a grin.

"You really do want to kill me, don't you?" Keith muses. He heaves a dramatic sigh, sinking into his seat and pretending to hide his face from the other café patrons. "I can't believe people are going to see me in public with a _prequels fan_."

This time, it's Shiro's turn to choke.

* * *

Keith likes talking to Shiro, he finds. He's warm, he's surprisingly funny, and he smiles a lot more when Keith is fully dressed in front of him. He's not quite sure what to make about that last one. All he knows is that one minute it's 1 PM, then next it's after 3.

"Shit," Keith hisses when he catches sight of the clock. It's still another 40 minutes home, he hasn't done any of his errands, let alone given a single thought to what he plans on wearing tonight. 

Mother Nature has a lot to learn about comedic timing, because as he scrambles to his feet, Kosmo startles with a sudden crack of thunder. 

" _Shit_."

Between one breath and the next, the heavens unleash. Suddenly that 40-minute walk evolves into a 40-minute wet dash. Keith can picture exactly where his umbrella is wedged in the corner by the door in his apartment—dry, safe and warm. Typical. 

"Is everything okay?" Shiro's voice pulls him back, and Keith softens with a sigh. He doesn't have to respond before Shiro speaks again. "I can pay for a cab if you need it."

"Good luck convincing a driver to take 140 pounds of wet dog downtown," Keith says dryly. "Besides, I'm pretty sure you're in no position to be paying for coffee _and_ cabs, Mister Intern. I admire the Sugar Daddy aspirations though."

A flush climbs up Shiro's neck, but he gets to his feet without comment on _that_ , holding out something to Keith—an umbrella.

"Take it," he says.

"And let you get drenched instead? Look, I'll live. And besides, in my line of work, I try not to be in a habit of owing anyone anything."

Shiro withdraws his arm, swallowing as he watches Keith wind his scarf around his neck and crouch to reattach Kosmo's leash. "Then let me walk you home."

Keith gives a dry laugh, and Shiro clearly gets the message. 

"Not all the way," he amends hastily. "I completely respect your privacy and I will only go as far as what makes you comfortable."

Keith hesitates. It's a stupid, _stupid_ idea. The kind of shit that preludes horror stories of restraining orders and bodies in the river. Shiro shouldn't be an exception to the rule.

"…You stop walking the second I tell you to."

"Of course."

"And you don't try to follow me or ask me questions about where I live."

To his credit, Shiro looks a little horrified. "I wouldn't dream of it."

"Good." Keith straightens, looping Kosmo's lead around his wrist. "We're headed south, down Castle Avenue."

"Yessir."

Keith tosses a wave to Hunk as they hurry out of the café and Shiro is quick to pop open his umbrella before they move out from under the shelter of the awning and into the downpour. The umbrella provides plenty of cover for two, but Shiro is cautious to put a respectful distance between them, at his own detriment. His right sleeve is already darkening, and it's only a matter of time before he is damp through on one side. Kosmo puts a stop to that, before Keith can say a word. 

Lightning flashes overhead, and the following boom makes the mutt yip and circle the two of them in a panic, yanking the lead to send Keith careening forward into Shiro's chest. Shiro stumbles, a hand reflexively going around Keith's waist, but he keeps his footing, even when Kosmo runs out of lead by wrapping them up tight. The hand doesn’t stay there long; Shiro jerks it away as if the spot burns. 

“S-sorry,” he stutters, and Keith rolls his eyes with a laugh.

“What? For my idiot dog?” he says, leaning further into Shiro’s solid body to unwind the lead from around them. Keith hears Shiro swallow by his ear, so he lingers a little longer than strictly necessary, savouring the warmth pressed against him from shoulder to hip. “You were putting too much space between us anyway. You’re soaked all the way down your side.” 

With their bodies freed from the lead, Keith pauses to slip his arm in the crook of Shiro’s elbow, forcing him to huddle close under the umbrella together. “Better?” he asks.

Shiro valiantly fights a blush, but Keith feels him unconsciously squeeze his arm to his side. “As long as you’re happy, I’m happy.”

“Such a gentleman,” Keith teases.

The sound of the rain and thunder doesn’t permit much chat, but silence between them is never uncomfortable. Shiro lets Keith lead them both, careful to keep them as dry as possible and only steering to avoid the puddles, much to Kosmo’s disappointment. Every street, every block, is an urgent reminder that the danger Keith inserts him in only grows with every step.

They're getting too close. Keith slows to a stop, urging Kosmo to sit with a slight increase in tension on the lead. "This is where we part ways," he announces. 

"Ah," Shiro says, stopping still himself to gently free Keith's arm. He pauses a moment, before he offers his umbrella out to him again, rain darkening the shoulders of his jacket.

"I already told you, I'm not taking it," Keith says. "We'll live. Hot baths and dry clothes the second we get home. Promise."

Shiro's face falls but he brings the umbrella back over them. He shifts on the spot, taking a breath and Keith braces himself for the protest. 

"Do you believe in fated encounters, Keith?" he asks, so softly Keith isn't sure he even heard right over the rain.

"Come again?"

But Shiro just shakes his head, looking down with a strange smile. "It's nothing. Take care, Keith."

And that's it. He scruffs behind Kosmo's ear, offers Keith one last devastating smile, then heads back the way they came. No attempts to sweet-talk his way into walking a little further, no glances back to see which way Keith walks, nothing. Keith's hair is plastered wet to his neck by the time Shiro is out of sight, and it takes a nudge from Kosmo to bring him back to himself. 

"Sorry boy. Let's go."

Keith wonders if the boy in the window just sabotaged his ordinary counterpart.

**Author's Note:**

> It was genuinely so hard to choose which fic to remix for Ahhuya! Please check out their works, especially their Hanahaki fic, which was a very close second choice for my Sheith Remix this year.
> 
> There will be more of this! Next chapter is ready to go, and I will probably end up splitting three since there's so much I want to keep going with. It's gonna get spicy, folks!
> 
> (By the way, you should definitely [check out the art](https://mobile.twitter.com/mondaijo/status/1089655100346458112) Mondaijo did for the original fic 😉)
> 
> Catch me on [Twitter!](https://twitter.com/copilotsheith)


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